


something walks around with your face

by butchkirkhammett



Category: Mötley Crüe, The Dirt (2019)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Drug Addiction, Dubious Consent, Gen, Gothic Elements, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Psychological Horror, Sexual Content, all normal rockstar things, awkward bonding over shared trauma, liberal amounts of setting things on fire, neither of the pairing tags are very prominent but they're definitely there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28623468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butchkirkhammett/pseuds/butchkirkhammett
Summary: If Tommy keeps this shit up, Vince is going to have to beat his ass for being a creepy fuck. There’s a little voice in the back of his head whispering that something iswrong,but he ignores it. There’s nothing that could possibly be that wrong with Tommy Lee, and if there is– Vince could give less of a fuck.or:Vince is slowly realizing there's something up with their drummer. As if his life hasn't already gone to shit.
Relationships: Tommy Lee & Vince Neil, Tommy Lee/Nikki Sixx, Vince Neil/Nikki Sixx (implied)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 18





	something walks around with your face

**Author's Note:**

> for reference, this is set (vaguely) during the theatre of pain tour

Vince shoves his hair out of his face, zips up his fly, and pats the chick on the ass. She smiles absently back at him, lipstick smudged over her top lip. Alright, time to get the fuck out of here.

He walks back into the club, smile locked and loaded for all the faces that turn to him, congratulating and hungering. He salutes the bouncer. Rolls his shoulders. Ignores the siren call of the bar. 

It takes all of half an hour for Vince to regret coming in. Sobriety has granted him access to a side of strip clubs he never wanted to see. Everything looks slimy and sweaty. No one can hold a real conversation, and _c’mon,_ he’s not asking for much. The girls are hot and interchangeable and eventually just boring. He wants a drink. 

That sweet, deadly call from the bar is getting louder. He can smell the guy next to him. The hand over his arm is a clamp with red nails and he’s about two seconds from prying it off with a crowbar. He wants a fucking drink. 

Okay, bathroom break.

He mumbles something to the chick and presses his hand down as gently as he can manage over her fingers. She lets go, but follows him all the way to the door. Too wasted to process where he said he was going. 

“I’ll be back in a sec, okay?” he says and knows he’ll never see her again. 

She gives a drunken little wave. Vince turns back and throws a convincing wink over his shoulder as the door falls shut. His hair falls into his eyes as he twists around and – _ow, fuck_ – rams into something solid.

Cold wetness strikes the hollow of his throat and splashes down his front. Vince recoils, hissing in disgust, and the smell hits, familiar– _beer,_ of all fucking things, because the universe loves to laugh at its own jokes. His hands fly up to his shirt where it’s begun to seep into the thin fabric and he sees the bottle on the floor rolling lazily away, bleeding piss-yellow beer over the dirty tile.

He’s expecting an apology, y’know, some goddamn basic courtesy for spilling shit over him but instead there’s laughter, an all too familiar snickering– and sure enough, it’s Tommy _fucking_ Lee. Laughing at him.

_“Asshole!”_

Quick, sudden rage drives Vince’s hands into Tommy’s narrow chest. He catches sight of the whites of his eyes under the mop of dark hair before Tommy stumbles back in a blur. The bony jut of his hip knocks painfully into the white bowl of a sink before he goes down, _hard,_ in a sprawl of long limbs on the floor.

He’s weirdly quiet down there, even for drunken silence. Shit, Vince would almost feel bad for the guy if he wasn’t still so pissed off. The crumpled body on the ground barely scratches the surface of what he wants to drive his fists into. 

He smells like beer. He wants a fucking drink. And his shirt is definitely ruined now, dark stain spreading all the way down to the top of his jeans. It sticks to his chest, mixing with the sweat and chafing against his skin as he tugs at the fabric. Just fucking great! At least going shopping will give him something to do in this shitty town while everyone else drinks and shoots up and looks down their white-crusted noses at him.

Vince scrubs half-heartedly at the sticky mess, then gives up. Fuck this, he’ll take his shirt off and find another fuck. Tommy’s starting to sit up, so Vince decides he’s probably fine. 

He’s just turned to leave when “Dude, are you sure you wanna do that?” comes from behind him.

“What?” he bites out. He turns back to see Tommy pulling himself up, feeling really, really not in the mood for any of this tall asshole’s shit. 

“I mean, you reek of beer,” Tommy says with a little shrug, real innocent-like, like he doesn’t also reek of the same beer and worse. “They might think you’re drinking again.” And there’s something about the way he says it, like he’s amused by the idea, like the fact that Vince is already on the fence, court order hanging over his head like a noose, and will get the shit kicked out of him if anyone thinks he’s slipping is _funny–_ it makes Vince want to knock him right back on his skinny punk ass. 

He grits his teeth. “I’ll tell them you spilled your beer on me.” It’s the fucking truth, after all, and they can all just deal with it. Vince is so tired of defending himself to these hypocritical assholes. 

Tommy’s standing at full height now, taller than Vince remembers, and it takes him a second to realize Tommy’s not slouching like he usually does. He doesn’t seem half as wasted as Vince thought he was, either, which is strange as hell because Tommy’s pretty much always wasted nowadays. 

His eyes go wide in mock confusion. “But, dude,” Tommy says, still all innocent, “I’d swear the bottle was in your hand.”

Vince freezes. This asshole’s implying– no fucking way. No _fucking_ way.

Cold outrage burns in his throat. “The fuck is your problem?” he snarls, and Tommy’s face goes blank so fast it’s actually downright unnerving. The shadows collecting under the set of his brows make his eyes look cold and sharp in a way Vince has only ever seen on Nikki when he gets _mean._ He’s still wearing his stage makeup, and that must be it, the mess of Vince’s rage and post-show exhaustion and the brutal fluorescent light of this shitty club bathroom making Tommy’s face pale and empty, his mouth a stark pink line.

The outrage is melting down into something heavy that drops low into his gut. If Tommy keeps this shit up, Vince is going to have to beat his ass for being a creepy fuck. There’s a little voice in the back of his head whispering that something is _wrong,_ but he ignores it. There’s nothing that could possibly be that wrong with Tommy Lee, and if there is– Vince could give less of a fuck.

All at once Tommy comes to life again. “Don’t have a problem,” he says easily, mouth crooking into a little grin. “That’s your thing.”

This fucking _bitch._ The anger surges up like it never left, hot and familiar, and his fists are itching to bury themselves in Tommy’s smug face. Fucker thinks he can fuck with him, just because Vince is the one in trouble? He can tell that to the teeth he’ll be spitting tomorrow.

“You’re about to,” Vince tells him, already imagining the satisfying sting of splitting skin against his knuckles. “You and everyone else who thinks it’s funny to shit on me– which I’m real fucking sick of, by the way.”

“Gonna kick my ass?” Tommy asks. He’s still smiling.

Oh, Vince is gonna do more than that, and he tells Tommy as much, embellishing it with a promise of dragging him out by the hair and making him apologize to Vince in front of everyone, on his knees. Tommy just looks vaguely amused. 

“Who’dya think they’re gonna believe?” Tommy says it easily, like a kid on the schoolground, but there’s a cruelty in his expression that Vince can no longer dismiss as a trick of the light. Tommy’s been a massive fucking dick lately, right along with the rest of them, but… 

_(Wrong,_ the little voice mutters. There’s something _wrong.)_

And okay, this is getting really fucking weird. Like, even-for-Tommy weird. He’s a crazy, unpredictable bastard and a real asshole sometimes, but not malicious. Not whatever this is.

He steps forward, and Vince resists the urge to step back because _fuck that,_ he’s not a pussy and Tommy acting like an evil freak doesn’t change the fact that it’s Tommy. Vince has no problem putting him in the dirt– has done it before, is more than happy to do it again.

So Vince curls his lip and says, “It’s on your breath, not mine.” 

And immediately regrets it.

Tommy tilts his head at that, like a big cat, his black eyes glinting. Vince can almost see the swish of a tail behind him, anticipatory and predatory. The _wrong wrong wrong_ is getting louder. Vince is suddenly a little less sure about that fight.

Tommy’s shoulders roll, and then he’s bending with a graceful swoop to pick up the dropped beer bottle, fingers dragging through the puddle around it. The remaining liquid sloshes noisily against the glass. He holds it up, beer dripping down the back of his hand, and for a second Vince thinks Tommy’s going to hold it out, try and get him to drink it, make him eat his words. Fat fucking chance, but he doesn’t want him to try.

Instead, he tilts his head up and to the side, taking a long drag of what’s left in the bottle, eyes never leaving Vince. The line of his makeup is visible along his jawline, where the mask ends and the real skin begins. When he lowers the bottle, his bright mouth is pursed in a swallow, cheeks sunken beneath the bone. The bottle hits the floor with an empty glass thunk.

Then he’s moving towards Vince, inhumanly fast, and they’re colliding again, a large hand clamping down on his shoulder as a wet, open mouth covers his own. 

Beer fills his every one of his senses, spilling past his lips before he can clamp them shut, muffling his shocked noise as more beer pours, lukewarm, over his chin and down his front, re-soaking his stained shirt and warming where Tommy’s flat chest is pressing into his own. He swallows reflexively. This isn’t a kiss, not even close– this is Tommy fucking with him, and succeeding. His head spins, lightheaded at the overpowering smell of cheap alcohol. Fingertips dig painfully into the meat of his shoulder. It’s not even good beer.

Vince’s fist smashes into the side of Tommy’s face.

He gasps and spits as he’s released, wiping at the mess on his face, a shitty feeling of dread sinking into his gut at the taste. Fuck. _Fuck!_ Doc’s going to have his ass for this if he finds out. 

Below him, staggered to the left, Tommy is half-bent, laughing like a maniac, but Vince can barely hear over his brain’s litany of _what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what thefuckwhatthefuck– ___

There’s a scream building in his throat, but he doesn’t think he could get it out if he tried. Vince meets Tommy’s eyes and he swears he looks like a demon, an actual fucking demon straight from hell, and Vince is seriously wondering if all that satanic shit Nikki liked to jerk himself off about and rope them into playing along with was true.

_What the fuck._

Red is already starting to crawl over Tommy’s cheekbone under the pale makeup, right over the smear of black that used to be two even lines. Vince knows he packs a punch, can feel the corresponding throb of his knuckles– that’s going to bruise ugly.

Victory tastes sour. Tommy doesn’t look like he even feels it.

He straightens up and Vince can’t stop the step backwards this time, doesn’t even want to. The rage under his skin is in disgusted recoil. He just wants to get away from him.

Tommy sounds perfectly casual when he says, “Dude, don’t even worry about it. I won’t tell anyone.” Like it’s that easy, like it wasn’t his own fucking fault any of this shit happened, like Vince didn’t just punch him in the face.

And this is the thing that really _gets_ to him, the thing that creeps him out the most about this whole situation; these sudden tone changes Tommy’s doing. Because Tommy’s not a good actor. So it has to be real.

With a friendly smile, Tommy pats his shoulder, right where he’d gripped so hard Vince can feel the bruises starting to form. Then brushes past, right out the door.

__

Vince is half-convinced it was a fever dream. Half-convinced the lingering taste in his mouth is really from him somehow managing to get secretly wasted off Tommy’s god awful beer and now his memory is completely fucked.

He definitely looks the part– his face in the mirror this morning looked like one of those depressed people in photos from the turn of the century; shadows under his eyes and a slack, downward pull at the corners of his mouth that takes real effort to curve up into something resembling a smile. Trying to put some life back into his hair had taken far too long, tugging his brush through it roughly until his whole scalp was one big, stinging nerve ending.

But then there’s purple fingertips on his skin. They’re so clearly defined they look like puncture wounds in his shoulder, and when Vince first spots them his mouth fills with the taste of cheap beer, an unrelenting flavor that he can only scrub out with the strongest mouthwash he can find, which happened to be Doug’s, who’s staying on the same floor– and he’s sure he embodied the high maintenance rockstar cliché that everyone already thinks he is when he banged on Doug’s door demanding his mouthwash, tightly-wrapped in a hotel robe that hid his shoulder. 

(Because these aren’t the kind of bruises you show off. A man’s fingerprints on your shoulder that isn’t smudged with resistance or clarified by other marks of violence is more dangerous to wear than any drag or satanic motifs.)

And fuck, that mouthwash _burned._ He has a newfound respect for Doug now. Which will last until one of the guys does something stupid and humiliates him, because they’re Mötley Crüe and nothing is sacred.

__

It’s not until right before the show that he sees Tommy again.

Something’s been building in Vince’s chest at the thought of seeing him again after whatever the fuck happened last night. In the daylight, it’s easy to dismiss that quiet discomfort sitting low in his gut; easy to find the anger again, the satisfying pull of his battered knuckles reminding him who he is.

He’s been dealing with guys trying to push him around and fuck with him for as long as he can remember. This isn’t anything new.

Vince is always the first up out of the guys now, because sleeping pills are an okay substitute for numbing yourself, but nothing compares to the insane cocktail of _anythingandeverythingyoucanfind_ that Nikki and Tommy take every night. As for Mick, Vince is pretty sure the guy hides in his room until he has to come down. He doesn’t blame him, either.

So he’s not surprised that he finds himself ready by noon, alone. The aloneness is still something he’s getting used to. Last time they were touring, before, Vince was in sync with the rest of them, out of commission until mid-afternoon. Back when 9 am was insanely early and Vince was a normal human being and not the monster he is now.

He skips lunch to go shopping and ends up screwing the mousy shop assistant in the cramped dressing room at the back of the first boutique he finds, then her friend. Next shop, and the next, and the next; rinse and repeat. 

It’s easy to get along with Mitchell, today’s limo driver, laughing when he jokes about the sheer volume of pussy Vince is getting. Yeah, he knows. He plays it up because that’s what’s expected from him and no one looks at it all too closely. Mitchell laughs that can’t-get-enough-of-this-guy-is-he-serious laugh Vince knows so well when he tells him that there are more girls waiting at the venue.

“Man, I can’t imagine being you.” Yeah, Vince knows.

An hour before the show he’s hanging out at the venue, fucking a series of faceless, busty girls in their shared dressing room while he waits for the others to show. As far as entertainment goes, it’s fine, whatever; his shoulder throbs at odd intervals. Tommy’s stronger than he looks, Vince mulls, tugging at his leather vest to make sure it’s covering the bruises. 

When the last chick, a brunette with a raspy moan, slips out the door, it’s not another chick that takes her place but Nikki (though, if Vince is being honest, Nikki could fool him sometimes) with Tommy trailing him like a puppy as usual, Mick bringing up the rear. And–

There’s no bruise.

On Tommy’s face, there’s no bruise. Where Vince laid a solid one on him, right over the bone, should be an ugly purple-black mess, but there’s nothing but smooth skin. No makeup covering it. It’s not even swollen.

It doesn’t make sense. Tommy should have a mark, a bruise to match the ones he put on Vince, because last night _did_ happen, _had_ to have happened otherwise Vince would be unmarked too but he’s _not_ and Tommy _is_ and it _doesn’t make any fucking sense._

Nikki makes a comment about the chick that Vince doesn’t listen to because he’s too busy reeling from the same _what the fuck_ feeling from before. The others all troop in and begin prepping for the show like there’s nothing wrong and Vince wants to break something. He’s never been the sharpest knife in the drawer, not even close, but this isn’t… this isn’t normal, right? It’s like the world’s tilted a little to the left, and Vince is the only one who’s noticed. 

Any other time he’d be saying something, trying to figure out what the fuck is going on, but he’s half-drained and fucked out and lately he hasn’t been getting that satisfied warmth that used to come with orgasm; instead he’s left feeling hollow, like he’s lost something. 

It’s that emptiness in his chest and the knowledge that if he reminds Tommy he punched him last night, Tommy might return the favor, that keeps his mouth shut.

He doesn’t realize he’s been staring at Tommy until an irritated “Dude, _what?_ ” has him fumbling for an excuse. Tommy rolls his eyes and goes back to smearing white makeup over his jaw, mumbling something to Mick about “too many pills”, who snickers and takes a swig of what is very obviously vodka, because Vince is in a band with a bunch of fucking hypocrites.

He rallies himself. He’s got a fucking job to do, regardless of freaky shit or a possible onset of insanity. Touring is hard. That’s all it is.

__

And for a while, that is all it is. Vince rolls, half-conscious, through an endless cycle of pills, performing, and pussy, ignoring the headlines and the comments and the others and the way he could drown in loneliness if he let it catch up to him.

It’s fine. He’s Vince Neil of Mötley Crüe, touring the whole goddamn world despite the bills and the blood on his hands. Girls want him. Guys want to be him. He has sex, money, and band that hates his guts. He screams and a thousand people scream back. 

It’s all fucking fine.

__

He shuffles out of the hotel room, ice bucket tucked under one arm. His stubble’s starting to itch– note to self: shave tomorrow morning. He scratches it absentmindedly, deciding he might as well shower, too, go the whole nine yards. Might make him feel more like a person and less like a singing, dancing monkey.

A figure catches his eye over by the emergency exit. Vince squints down the hall.

It’s Tommy.

Vince would be happy to shrug it off, ignore Tommy just standing there like a dumbass in his little white shorts, except… he’s weirdly still. Statue-still under the red EXIT sign, staring directly at Vince. Something tugs at the back of his mind.

This isn’t Tommy’s floor. The door to the stairs is ajar, revealing a sliver of the void of the unlit stairwell beyond it. He’s not moving. 

“Are you lost?” Vince calls to him, a little mean. But seriously, what the hell?

There’s a beat of nothing. Vince is about to say something else, maybe turn around and call Doc and tell him to come collect Tommy’s creepy, wasted ass, when Tommy _moves._

He’s standing there and then he’s not, a blur of hair and bare legs disappearing into the dark emergency stairwell. Footsteps patter rapidly, and fade.

Okay.

Vince decides he doesn’t need that ice after all.

__

If Vince believed in omens, that would’ve been it. He starts hearing weird shit at night, outside his room. One time he’s lying awake, waiting for the pills to kick in when he hears something being smashed in the distance, then pounding footsteps down the hall, past his door, turning the corner, and another smashing noise, more fading footsteps, another smash. 

The next day, he hears from the concierge that someone in the middle of the night beat in all the security cameras on his floor. Surprisingly, no one blames him for it.

The noises aren’t every night, but they’re close enough. And it’s driving him crazy. He mentions it a couple of times, because obviously, and gets responses of first condescension _(aww, Prince Vince not getting his beauty sleep)_ and then dismissal _(man it’s fine, probably just someone after a few too many, will you shut the hell up?)._

So it’s just him, apparently. No one else is noticing anything, or if they are no one’s saying anything about it, which– big fucking shocker, were it anything important, but they’re fucking rockstars and rockstars can bitch with the best of them.

His first thought is Tommy, every time. 

See, he’s been in this band with the guy for over four years. He knows what Tommy’s footsteps sound like, the specific beat of his run, and what he’s hearing? Yeah, it’s fucking Tommy.

Vince can’t decide if it’s some elaborate plot to fuck with him – which, let’s be honest, they don’t have the attention span for, let alone the sobriety – or if Tommy’s genuinely just completely lost his shit.

Vince is betting on the second one.

The night with the beer and the club bathroom lurks in the back of his mind, though. Tommy’s empty eyes and the missing bruises. And then the hallway. Maybe it’s all connected? Or maybe Vince is the one losing his shit.

__

He smells the gasoline before he sees anything. It’s after a show, maybe one in the morning, and Vince has promised this chick they’d fuck in the limo, so he’s walking her out to the parking lot. 

The soft, taut skin of her tits press to his arm from where they’re falling out of her push-up bra. He envies her drunken giggle. To be honest, he’d picked her because she’d ordered his favorite cocktail at the bar and let him lick the lingering flavor right out of her mouth.

As the cooler night breeze collects them from the sweaty heat of the club, the smell catches Vince’s attention. Gasoline– and too strong. Too much. It’s a smell he has associated with cars right before the cars blow up. He mentions it to the girl and she mumbles something about “gross”. Real helpful. 

The light from the club spills over the scarred pavement, dying at the outer reaches of the parking lot. It’s out there that their limo is parked, unless it’s been moved at some point between when they pulled up after the show and now. Vince can just barely see the long glint of light reflected along the body, interrupted by the shadow of a person, but there’s something off about it.

If someone’s fucked with their limo, Vince is going to beat their head in with a tire iron.

He unhooks his arm from her shoulders and ignores her stumbling “Hey!”, adrenaline starting its familiar course through his veins as he jogs across the lot into the dark. As he gets closer, the figure standing in front of the limo turns to him.

“Hey, man!” Tommy’s voice calls out of the shadows. 

Vince comes to a stop next to him with a splash and _what the fuck did he just step in?_ The light pollution of this city can’t make up for the night’s lack of moon so he can’t see shit. But, oh hell, the smell of gasoline is a lot stronger now. He steps back out of the puddle. Across the lot behind him, he can hear the girl yelling his name.

Tommy’s ghostly, barely-there face is turned towards the limo. Vince looks over at it too and forgets all about the girl.

In the darkness, the undercarriage of the limo looks like the guts of a corpse. Slick, twisting, trailing like intestines. Shiny with– shit, shiny with gasoline, which runs rivulets down the doors, pooling in the upside-down handles. The whole thing’s turned over, wheels pointing to the sky like a turtle on its back.

Vince can’t look away. Suddenly Tommy’s presence by his side doesn’t feel familiar at all, and the image of his face comes up: blank, amused, cruel under fluorescent lights. The body next to him is completely still. There’s a growing certainty in his throat that tastes like dread.

“How did you do that.”

It’s barely a question. Vince isn’t sure he wants an answer. It was Tommy, though, or– whoever it is that he’s talking to. Vince knows this the way he knew when his parents gave up on stopping him from drinking and using and becoming whatever it is he is now.

The shadow of Tommy’s head tilts forward as his hands go into his pocket. When there’s no answer, he tries again. “Tommy–”

The interruption is downright cheerful, like Tommy never even heard him. “Man, you’re lucky you came out here. Right on time, Vince!” 

He offers out a quarter-full bottle of Jack Daniels. Vince stares at it and _wants,_ then gathers himself and hisses, “You know I can’t, asshole.” Tommy shrugs easily and then, with a casual motion, throws the bottle against the side of the limo. 

The sudden shatter makes Vince jumpy. He feels like a prey animal.

Tommy pulls a cigarette out of his pocket and tucks it in his mouth. Vince sees a shine of white and can’t decide whether Tommy’s baring his teeth or smiling. “This is gonna be great, dude,” he says.

Vince doesn’t want to know. Just really, truly, honestly, does not want to fucking know what Tommy’s talking about. The “what?” comes out anyway.

“The show.”

Tommy strikes a match. Vince’s stomach drops through the fucking floor. 

_Shit shit shit shit._ He makes a grab for it, because there’s no way, _no fucking way_ this is happening on his watch and Tommy moves back with a little “woah!” and leans his head back, bringing the match to the tip of his cigarette out of Vince’s reach, leaving him to stumble into Tommy’s hard, cold chest.

He shoves back as fast he can, alarm bells still ringing. Tommy’s got that vague smile back, watching him. The glowing cherry casts a faint reddish circle over his face, reflecting out of his black eyes as he sucks in leisurely. _What kind of game is he playing?_

Tommy exhales deeply into the sky. He’s still standing far too still for Tommy, who doesn’t stop fidgeting when he’s fucking unconscious, as far as Vince knows, it’s fucking unnerving as hell. He doesn’t look like Tommy. The motions are all right – the sweep of his wrist, the nod of his head, the ring of his open lips – but there’s something missing, beyond just the energy. Like he’s an evil doll of Tommy, or something. Which is stupid as fuck and maybe he’s watched too many horror movies... but this, right now, feels like one. 

Vince tracks the cigarette in his hand as it drops to his side then back up. He wants to wrestle it out of Tommy’s grip. As if hearing his thoughts, those black eyes flick back to him. Tommy shows his teeth again.

“Run.”

And then he drops the cigarette.

Vince doesn’t really follow the next few moments of his life. Adrenaline crashes through his body like the surf at high tide and his hearing goes under a rush of blood. A wave of heat crashes at his back. Distant pounding doubles and folds over itself; his heart and those all-too familiar footsteps. He’s running into the dark, and then he’s running out of it. 

He leans against something cool (stone, he thinks) and pants desperately, hands shoving against the tight, slick leather over his knees to prop himself up. His stomach lurches uncomfortably– that goddamn sparkling water from earlier. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Tommy’s stupid gold converse, resting an easy shoulder-width apart.

The club thrums against his spine. Across the parking lot, an inferno dances across their overturned limo, casting into the sky a warm, brilliant light that rivals the neon signs all around it.

It doesn’t feel real. He knows objectively that he’s done much, much worse than this, but right now nothing has made him feel this mix of bone-deep terror and numbness. He thinks it might have something to do with the guy next to him. _Tommy._ Who might not be Tommy.

Who’s standing statue-still, just like that time in the hall, with no indication he just sprinted for his life across a whole goddamn parking lot. He’s watching the blaze with such a child-like curiosity Vince would swear he’s never seen fire before if he didn’t know better, but if it’s not Tommy… Vince doesn’t know better. He doesn’t know anything at all.

So when Tommy turns and takes off down the alley, Vince follows. Or tries to, anyway. Ever-familiar footsteps echo off the walls and Tommy’s getting ahead, disappearing into the dark, and Vince is just about to shout or something when the ground rocks under his feet, an explosion roaring its power up to the sky behind him. He turns around to see through the sliver of space between buildings as a ball of flame melts into the night.

 _The limo._ He feels the breath leave his lungs. When he looks back down the alley, Tommy is nowhere to be seen.

__

Vince is becoming increasingly convinced that there’s something majorly, seriously wrong. It’s one thing to be a massive fucking dick and try and get him in trouble for drinking or messing with him in various hotels at night, but it’s a whole ‘nother thing to blow up the band’s limo and run out of the club with everyone else seconds after disappearing and start asking what’s going on like you don’t already know.

If Tommy’s not having some kind of psychotic break (which he’s long overdue for, in Vince’s opinion– the guy swallows lightbulbs and does every drug Vince’s ever heard of, for fuck’s sake) then… Vince doesn’t even know what. He’s possessed, or has an evil twin, or some other horror movie shit? Not likely.

But no one else is noticing anything. Sure, they noticed the limo getting blown up; as did the rest of the city, including the media and the cops, so now Vince has to deal with armed pigs at his shows which is just. Really fucking great. 

(At least no one asked him any questions about it– Nikki, the paranoid bastard, is still convinced it was a public threat on the band’s life, like they aren’t already one themselves. It’s different though, self-destruction. Vince knows that.)

No one is noticing anything– except Vince. Mick’s not-so-secret vodka stash is found entirely emptied, vacant bottles lined up like soldiers in a bad joke. His own pill bottles go missing and he has to replace them. He finds his sheets soaked in cheap beer. Several roadies mention seeing a tall man leaving hallways and disappearing around corners where no one should’ve been at the moment.

He catches Tommy walking out of his hotel room with blood smeared across his mouth and over his hands up to his elbows, ignoring Vince calling his name and heading straight for the stairs. Then he overhears a hotel manager anxiously trying to dismiss a cleaning maid’s complaints of sheets “painted red”, _Jesus._

It could be weird tour shit. It _could_ be, and yet Vince knows in his gut that it’s not. The ominous noises outside his hotel rooms have gotten more sporadic, which should be better but it’s not because now Vince can’t predict them at all.

It’s all too fucking weird and exhausting, and Vince just wants to go home at this point. He misses his bed, the beach, Beth’s orange 240Z.

He takes more pills. Sleep becomes impossible without them. He wakes up to his door on fire once, and that wasn’t even Tommy, just Nikki’s coked-up pyromaniac ass.

Vince really wishes he could fucking drink,

__

(And he can’t really talk to anyone about it anyway, can he? Not when there’s a chasm between them the size of a car crash and everyone’s watching him like another body is going to drop as soon as he touches a bottle.

He fucked up, he _knows_ he fucked up, and Razzle is going to haunt him until he dies, so why is Tommy haunting him too? He doesn’t think he deserves them both.)

__

Sex stopped being a big deal in the third grade, so Vince has no qualms about wandering to the fridge while people writhe all over his living room furniture and floor. _Home sweet home._ He’s already fucking sick of it. 

Ignoring the assortment of drinks people have been stashing is hard. Like, really hard. He considers the non-alcoholic beer someone gave him as a condescending, back-handed gift, but he still has his fucking pride, thank you very much. Not that it can fully soothe the disappointment of carbonation tickling his throat when what he really wants is a smooth burn, but without his pride he has nothing at all.

Upstairs is more of the same, moans and mumbles and loud breathing; sounds he’s pretty much immune to by now even when he’s not literally aching from having emptied his balls so many times. 

He remembers vaguely one of the endless therapists asking him to think about why he chose to lose himself in sex rather than try and socialize, but he really doesn’t have to: fucking is easy. Socializing when everyone sees you as an uncontrollable alcoholic murderer is hard. Vince is perfectly happy to take the easy way out.

He feels a little hazy, the pills he popped sometime around noon having long since worn off. It’s not an addiction, not like the drinks, but… maybe it’s been a few too many, recently. Maybe a little too often. Who gives a fuck? Nobody here, that’s for sure. Vince is ready to pop another handful and disappear– whether his body decides to stick around or not after that isn’t really on him.

One of the doors in the hallway is shut, but the rest apparently have no qualms about a potential audience. He kicks the door frame of one after a particularly loud yowl cuts out of the dark. _Jesus fuck._ Why does he even care?

He’s almost to his bedroom when he catches a glimpse of Nikki’s hair through the crack of a guest room door. He doesn’t mean to look, really, because he couldn’t give less of a shit about who Nikki’s fucking, except for the fact that the body curled over him looks distinctly male. And distinctly familiar.

 _Hold up._

Vince’s brain crashes like a goddamn computer.

Nikki. With Tommy in his lap. On Vince’s guest room bed. And there’s an arm there between them and, okay, it’s definitely moving. Up and down.

And now that he’s stopped breathing he can hear theirs. Loud panting with a little hitch at the end, a tiny noise that belongs to Nikki, which Vince knows because they’re in a goddamn band together and have orgies and fuck in close proximity but _not that close._

Tommy’s skinny legs are splayed over Nikki’s thighs, knees cinched tight against Nikki’s hips while Nikki clutches at his waist and oh, it’s Tommy’s arm between them. Vince can’t see exactly what’s happening there – and doesn’t want to, thanks – but it’s not hard to guess that Tommy’s hand is down Nikki’s pants, if the flex of his forearm and Nikki’s breathy noises are anything to go by. Their faces are half-obscured, hair everywhere, and the wet, slick slide of flesh against flesh is so fucking _loud._ Vince’s gut twists low. He can feel his face heating in embarrassment.

He looks back up and Tommy’s staring at him, _oh shit._

Vince is about to apologize, leave, whatever, but Tommy’s not saying anything and Nikki seemingly hasn’t noticed and his hand is still moving and his face is blank and Vince _knows_ that expression. 

Tommy’s evil twin. (He wants to smack himself for that thought – it sounds so fucking stupid – but he doesn’t really have a better name for it. God, he hates that this is his life now.)

And then this other version of Tommy starts talking. Murmuring, really, voice low and even right under Nikki’s ear, nose pressed into the sweaty hair plastered to his neck while Nikki has his face buried in his shoulder, completely out of Vince’s sight, and Vince doesn’t catch the words right away because this other Tommy, this Not-Tommy, is still staring straight at him.

“–on stage looking like a whore, and you know it, don’t you? You know what you look like. Running around so everyone can get a good look at you, can imagine what they’d do to you.” 

His face never changes. Under him, Nikki lets out what Vince can only describe as a whine, his hips bucking against the grip of bony knees. Vince swallows.

“And you get off on it. On everyone watching. Everyone looking at you.” Not-Tommy’s eyes bore into him.

Vince wants to run. He should’ve fled ages ago. Why isn’t he running?

A full-body shudder goes through Nikki, who’s looking more and more caged by Not-Tommy’s unyielding body looming over him, height difference exacerbated by the way he’s sitting on Nikki’s folded thighs, pinning him to the bed while his other arm is looped around Nikki’s neck. He looks downright predatory, hand never changing speed as he maintains unflinching eye contact with Vince.

“Imagine if someone was watching right now.”

And that’s a fucking cue to leave if Vince has ever heard one. 

He stumbles back as Nikki makes a noise like he’s been punched, and he sounds fucking _wrecked_ and heat surges up Vince’s spine as his overused dick twitches in his pants. He catches a hand slipping into the scruff of Nikki’s hair and yanking, exposing Nikki’s face and pale column of his neck while Not-Tommy’s dark eyes are still fucking tracking him before they’re out of sight as Vince dashes down the hallway. 

Vince makes it to his bedroom and slams the door, heart nearly beating out of his chest. Not-Tommy’s creepy, blank face lingers out of the dark. His dick twitches again. _Fuck._

__

Vince does not bring it up the next day– he knows how this kind of thing works. He doesn’t think Nikki remembers. He’s not sure that it _was_ Tommy. He can’t answer any of the million questions going through his head so he just. Stops. Swallows a handful and leans his head back and falls away.

When they hit the road again, it takes him three shows before he feels comfortable manhandling Nikki on stage again. Tommy grins at him over the drums. Afterwards, he fucks the first dark-haired girl he can get his hands on until she’s screaming loud against his ear, high-pitched and nothing like the low moan that’s been echoing through his head. Back in his hotel room, all his pills are scattered across the mud-colored carpet. His sheets reek of JD.

_Fuuuuck._

__

“You’re not Tommy,” he tells the thing with Tommy’s face. 

“Yeah?” Not-Tommy exhales smoke through his mouth. He looks down at Vince out of the corner of his eye from where his head is leaning against the grey stone of the dressing room wall.

He looks smug. Vince isn’t sure which expression he hates more: the smugness or the blankness. Both set his teeth on edge. Buried beneath the urge to punch this freak right in the face, however, is a twist of very real fear. He likes his threats predictable, sue him.

“Who am I, then?” 

Vince shrugs, the back of his neck prickling in warning. His lean next to Not-Tommy doesn’t feel half as relaxed. He sucks hard on his cig, willing the nicotine to soothe him like it’s supposed to, very aware of Not-Tommy’s gaze on the side of his face. Maybe this was a bad idea, confronting him, but fuck it, Vince was getting antsy with the realization and it’s not like a godammn guide to this whole thing exists out there somewhere for him to consult.

There’s a slow, condescending shake of dark curls and then a body is shoving into his, holding him against the wall. He feels his cig slip between his fingers as Not-Tommy’s hand curls over Vince’s shoulder. Phantom bruises throb under the harsh grip. Deja vu hits Vince and he inhales sharply and – _shit fucking fuck oh my fucking god_ – freezes.

The cherry of a cigarette is hovering less than an inch from his right eye. A blurred glow as everything else goes dark. He can feel the heat of it radiating over his face, the smoke stinging, but he doesn’t dare so much as breathe, let alone blink.

“Vince, man, you don’t get it.” Not-Tommy’s voice is measured, losing the feigned ease of earlier. A burn starts in Vince’s lungs. He can feel his eyes start to water. It stings, his lungs are screaming– 

“I am him.”

He doesn’t – can’t – respond. A beat later, Not-Tommy steps back and the burning laser disappears from his vision. Vince squeezes his eyes once, twice, feeling the wet trail down from the inner corner and wanting nothing more than to close his eyes forever, but he keeps his gaze trained on the psycho in front of him, unwilling to drop his guard.

Not-Tommy scoffs and shakes his head again. He takes another taunting drag from his cigarette. Tilts his head consideringly. Then jabs the burning tip right onto Vince’s collarbone. 

Vince can’t stop the wounded howl that’s ripped out of him at the flare of pure white-hot pain that drills right through the delicate skin down to the fucking bone. His hand flies up, just barely missing the cigarette as it pulls away, cupping over the burned skin. The wall meets his skull hard as his body flinches back from the pain only to find nowhere to go, and his vision goes sparkly for a moment.

When the flashing spots clear he’s alone, staring at the extinguished butt on the floor at his feet.

Vince exhales shakily. The hurt is pulsing now, insistent, and he realizes it’s probably going to scar. He should be pissed off because _what the fuck_ but he just feels rattled, right down to the bone. It’s a feeling he should probably be familiar with by now. 

The sheer bizarreness of the whole thing is still sinking in. He’s living a real, bonafide horror flick, starring Tommy fucking Lee as the monster because why the fuck not?

Maybe he really died alongside Razzle the way he sometimes wishes he did and this is hell. 

Shit, his shoulder is going to bruise again.

__

(Later, he’ll realize that this is when Tommy’s own bruises started showing up. A tight ring of purple around his scrawny wrists, the first time. Later, more.

He doesn’t remember what he thought at the time. Maybe he didn’t think anything.)

__

Another city, another venue, another dressing room. Vince’s been making sure lately to set up as far away from Tommy as possible– which he’s managed quite subtly, if he does say so himself. Not that it’s hard to get shit past Tommy. (Normal Tommy, anyway.)

He winces at the flick of a lighter as Mick lights up a cigarette next to him. There’s an ever-present itch under his skin now. He hasn’t smoked for a couple of days. Fuck the other Tommy for ruining cigarettes for him. He’s running out of vices.

Mick peers at him from under his heavy eyeshadow. “What, tryin’ to quit smoking, too?” His tone is derisive: _good fucking luck with that one._

Vince adjusts the scarf draped securely around his neck, making sure it’ll cover everything. The fabric stings his skin as it drags over the healing burn. 

“Yeah, why not,” he replies humorlessly. 

Mick squints at him for a second, then decides he’s not worth the time and turns back to his mirror, and hey, doesn’t that sound familiar? (Yeah, Vince is fucking bitter, okay. These guys used to be his best friends. Now they barely talk to him. What happened to all that shit that Nikki liked to preach about family? Not that he’d know anything about it.

...Okay, that was mean. Betrayal makes him ugly, he knows.)

Mick twists deliberately around to Nikki and makes some comment about his eyeliner. Vince turns back to back to his own mirror and the realization of his loneliness is almost humiliating. He’s all set for their show: eyes lined and glittered, lipstick glossy over his mouth, hair teased up. Everything about him is bright, bold, fuckable. He feels like he’s hiding behind it. 

Somewhere to his left, glass shatters and falls like rain. 

“The _fuck?”_ someone shouts– Nikki, if he had to guess. Mick’s hair lashes at him over his shoulders as he turns and Vince has to lean back so he can peer past him, grabbing the counter so he doesn’t topple out of the backless chair.

Tommy’s standing in front of his vanity, shoulders drawn up and eyes wild, staring into the remaining web of splintered glass where his mirror used to be. His makeup is half-done, a white mask without any eyeliner or rouge, and it makes him look haunted, ghostly. Blood drips steady from his curled fist down to the cement floor.

There’s a shocked stillness in the room that sometimes comes with outbursts like these, and Vince is thinking that maybe he was right earlier and Tommy’s just having some kind of drawn out psychotic break after all. The expression’s wrong, though. He looks far too human.

“What the hell was that, man?” Nikki asks, and Vince can see that the sudden violence has put his drugged-up ass on edge, body gone tense and twitchy. Tommy blinks. His head raises to look over at them, gaze flicking from face to face, and Vince is struck by how young he looks.

“There was something wrong with my reflection,” he says. His hand flexes at his side. A shard of glass falls to the floor with a sharp little tink muffled by blood.

Whatever spell that held them in a moment of normal human reaction dissipates. Nikki cracks up, throwing his head back with that carefree asshole laugh, shoulders losing their tension. Tommy joins in a beat later. Nikki cackles something like “that’s just your ugly mug” and then they’re off, back and forth, while Mick snorts and shifts back in his seat, rubbing at his neck– turned his head too fast, if Vince had to guess.

There’s a feeling settling in Vince’s gut heavy and permanent as cement. Across the room, mid-grin, Tommy catches his eye. Something passes across his face and vanishes just as fast. Something helpless. Searching.

And Vince thinks maybe Tommy knows.

__

He does.

Hours after the show, sometime that night (or early morning, for all Vince knows), at another nameless strip club, Tommy finds him and tells him he wants to talk. And Vince–

Vince really doesn’t want to. He’s not equipped to handle this shit, any of it. Doesn’t want to think about it, shouldn’t have to think about it. He’s a fucking singer, for fuck’s sake, in a band. And he’s so tired. He can’t handle this.

But there’s something about the way Tommy says his name, half-drunk, quiet and head low. Not pleading, really, but resigned. So they’re in a back alley behind the club, coats pulled close and hair blowing in their eyes as Tommy tells Vince there’s something wrong with him and Vince fights the urge to say _no shit._

“It’s like– it’s me, or looks like me, actually, but it’s not–”

“Yeah, I’ve met him,” Vince says. 

Tommy flicks his bangs out his face. “I know.” He drops his eyes to the ground for a second, then back up to Vince. They’re a little drug-hazy, but not half as bad as he usually sees them. “I could tell. Even before he told me, I– uh. You’ve been watching me.”

Vince is surprised he noticed. Tommy’s always seemed so oblivious, like a little kid. It’s easy to forget kids pay attention.

“He’s talked to you?”

“Yeah, he– I– _fuck,_ that’s weird. Um, yeah, a few times. More like he talks at me while I try ‘n figure out what’s going on and then he disappears.” He waves his arm around vaguely.

And yeah, Vince knows that one. 

“Who is he?” he asks, not really expecting anything.

“It’s me,” Tommy says earnestly, and shuffles his feet. “Or, I mean. Not really. He says he’s me. But I’m not him. He’s like… y’know, a version of me.”

“Right.” This can’t really be his life. “Right, yeah.” Tommy’s looking at him like he might be having the same moment.

They stand there silently in the cold for a long moment, surrounded by damp bricks and dumpsters and used needles. Voices filter down occasionally from the mouth of the alley, raucous and drunk. 

Vince wishes he were drunk right now. Make it all a bit easier to swallow, or just easier to ignore.

After a while Tommy pulls a pack out of his inner pocket and shakes out the last cigarette, then fumbles through his other pockets for a lighter. Watching him light up, hands trembling faintly from the cold (or, at least he would say it was if anyone asked him), Vince realizes he never fully appreciated how controlled Not-Tommy is in comparison– that almost inhuman stillness, the dangerous grace of his movements, the terrifying speed. Just like a fucking horror movie.

The Tommy standing in front of him has his tilted back, exhaling heavily into the sky while one leg bounces, looking as lost as Vince feels. He drops his chin, takes another drag, and holds out the cigarette in offering. 

Vince’s not really sure if he wants it or not, honestly, a little ball of remembered dread sitting low in his throat, but that days-old itch under his skin is persistent enough that Vince swallows it down.

Nicotine floods his lungs. The burn scar on his collarbone throbs even as his muscles immediately start to unwind. Shit, that’s good. He lets himself sway back into the wall, amazed at how much better he feels. Mick was right, he could never quit this. He passes it back to Tommy and they trade it until it’s gone.

And this is good, too. Vince fucking missed this, this easy company he used to have with the guys, where they could exist in the same place peacefully, without extra effort. It’s not like it was before, not with the years and the bodies and the heavy, twisted thing between them that wears Tommy’s face, but for a moment Vince can close his eyes and pretend.

__

Two shows later, Tommy plays with an ugly cut over his forehead that his hair can’t quite hide and no one says a word. 

And Vince doesn’t intend to either, if he’s being honest, because Tommy’s problems are none of his business and caring about his bandmates isn’t actually in the job description, especially after they fucking _abandoned_ him. But he does, for some reason. He tells himself he’s repaying Tommy for that cigarette.

So he tracks him down on their day off, which Tommy better be fucking grateful for because Vince could be doing literally anything else right now but instead he’s here, in some corner deli at four in the afternoon, looking at the saddest goddamn egg sandwiches he’s ever seen in his life. 

(Okay, he didn’t actually have any other plans, but the principle stands.)

Vince stares at the egg sandwiches. He’s never seen that shade of yellow before. There’s a nauseating sogginess to the bread that makes him think of the mud used for mud wrestling. 

“Dude.” Tommy nudges him. “I don’t think those are edible.” The skin around his cut looks greenish under his dark hair. Vince can see a scrape on his jaw that he knows didn’t come from shaving. He looks back at the egg sandwiches.

“Uh, tuna sandwich,” he tells the employee behind the counter. “Thanks.” 

It’s weird being famous, he muses over his sandwich, ‘cause there’s no telling who might recognize you, where, or when. No one in this park has yet, but they might, and it lurks quietly in Vince’s mind. It’s like a benevolent paranoia. A benign cancer.

A flock of birds take off from a nearby tree, leaving it winter-bare. Despite the chill, Vince’s coat is a bit too heavy under the sharp afternoon sun.

Beside him Tommy’s quickly wolfing down the first of three ham and cheese bagels – breakfast, he called it, which means he mostly stuck to coke instead of whiskey last night – the other two sitting stacked in his lap and leaking grease onto his leather pants. It’s a little disgusting to watch, if Vince is honest, and he wonders briefly why he’s decided to do this.

Right, their weird new solidarity. “So, uh.” He gestures loosely at Tommy’s forehead. “Him?”

“What? Oh, yeah.”

And see, they haven’t really talked about it. Like, actually talked. So Vince has no idea what he’s supposed to say. _Sorry? That sucks? Better you than me?_

Tommy seems blissfully unaware of the awkwardness Vince is wallowing in. “He grabbed me by th’ hair ‘n shoved me into th’ wall,” he elaborates between big bites of cheap ham and melted cheese. “F’kin’ hurt.”

“Why?” Vince asks before he can stop himself. 

Tommy swallows the last of his first sandwich and starts unwrapping the next one. “Likes fucking with me, I guess.” He glances over at Vince right before taking a bite, an eyebrow quirked cockily. “I’m not just laying down and taking it, though.”

“So you’re just... what, brawling with your evil twin?” It sounds goddamn ridiculous when he puts it like that.

Tommy snorts, then breaks out into obnoxious laughter, hand flying up to catch his hat as he throws his head back. Vince finds himself laughing along with him, really laughing, in a way he hasn’t in a while. God, what the hell. It really does sound like a bad joke.

“Dude, I wish that was all it was! He’s always, like, saying shit, throwing me off my game. Pisses me off, man.” 

“Li’ wha’?” Vince asks through his sandwich. The tuna’s pretty good, actually.

Tommy finishes his bite. “Uh, really weird shit, dude. Creepy stuff about– y’know, just… stuff that’s happening. Me. You guys, sometimes.” He ducks his head and goes back to his bagel. Vince wonders what Not-Tommy’s said about him.

Tommy’s earring catches the late afternoon light, and Vince realizes he’s seen Nikki wearing it. Recently. It might belong to Nikki, now that he thinks about it. And images of _that night_ flash before his eyes, and suddenly he’s feeling a little hot, burning with curiosity and something else he knows well but won’t name.

“Like Nikki?” he dares. Tommy stiffens and stares at his bagel.

“...He told you?” 

_Told._ “Yeah,” Vince lies. Like he’s going to admit to Tommy he saw his evil clone getting it on with his fellow bandmate in his own goddamn guestroom. 

Tommy nods. He’s peeking at Vince cautiously from under his lashes. Not even the orange glow of the setting sun can hide the uncomfortable redness seeping into his face. Vince feels kind of bad, suddenly, for bringing it up. He thought Tommy would be– into it, or something. Instead he looks vaguely nauseous.

“He told me too. With… details. A lot of details.” Tommy swallows. Keeps peeking over at Vince, then back down. “He was– he was bragging, dude. Nikki doesn’t deserve that shit, he doesn’t even fucking remember– I mean, he’d never do it sober. He’s not–”

]“Yeah.” Vince doesn’t need him to finish the thought. He knows. They both know. 

(And he kind of suspects that Tommy’s more bothered that Not-Tommy took advantage of Nikki than the whole… gay sex part. Which is– yeah. Okay. Whatever.)

Neither of them say anything else until all the sandwiches are gone. The sun’s sitting on top of the park’s treeline now, and the temperature’s dropped a degree or two so Vince is no longer slightly uncomfortable in his jacket. He sees Tommy press his fingers against the cut on his forehead.

“Thanks, Vince,” he mumbles. Vince doesn’t know what he’s thanking him for, specifically, but he doesn’t ask. 

“Sure, man.”

__

It’s the rebirth of an awkward friendship. Tommy collects injuries and Vince chases sleep and he wishes he could say it’s better than before because he’s not quite as fucking _alone_ anymore, but now he hardly feels _alive._

It’s tough being present– despite their bond, Tommy is getting shitfaced every night like it’s a form of survival, and Vince wants wants wants so badly to join him. He’s been taking bigger and bigger handfuls of pills because they’re starting to lose their edge and wear off faster. He knows, hypothetically, where the limit is, how many he can take before he’s waking up in a hospital or not at all, but the number gets higher when he’s tired. Which is constantly.

The noises outside his room are happening every night, now. Vince has long since learned that opening the door to try and catch won’t work, so he doesn’t try. He finds his sheets soaked with beer, with JD, with vodka – everything he can’t have – more and more. On those nights Vince sleeps on the floor.

Sometimes when Tommy gets a particularly nasty set of bruises or cuts that are guaranteed to scar Vince will sit with him in the corner of a bar or on a park bench or in his hotel room and listen to him talk about what happened without actually ever saying anything. He tries to get Vince to talk, too, but Vince doesn’t tell him anything. Doesn’t think he can.

(Not-Tommy never hurts him. It’s only Tommy. Vince has no idea what it means.)

It’s fucking weird. Tommy’s never sober for these conversations and always thanks him at the end and Vince always brushes him off uncomfortably because he’s not really _doing_ anything. They’re not actually talking about it, and Vince is hardly stopping him from getting hurt again.

There are things Tommy lets slip sometimes that Vince is pretty sure he doesn’t mean to. Any other context and Vince would be eating it up, always hungry for incriminating shit he can use later. But really, now, he just wishes Tommy wouldn’t say anything. He doesn’t want to hear it. He’s tired of carrying it all around.

“’m never tellin’ anyone t’ go fuck themselves again,” Tommy declares once as they stumble back to his room. It takes Vince a second to realize the implications of what he’s said, then– oh.

Oh, _fuck._

Tommy nods solemnly to himself, completely wasted, then trips over a tray left in the hall for room service to collect, breaking the used glasses and sending silverware across the carpet, which gets him laughing far too loudly. Vince doesn’t even try to shush him, still reeling because what the _actual_ fuck. This isn’t even within the realm of anything Vince thought he’d have to deal with when he decided to be a singer. He thinks he might be sick.

It never comes up again.

Another time, Tommy’s hugging him and refusing to let go, and Vince is uneasily petting his back, staring at the brick wall over his shoulder, wondering if it's possible to get drunk off just fumes and wishing it would happen to him, and then Tommy goes real quiet and says, “There’s something wrong with me.”

Vince is tired, so he tries a lighthearted, “There’s something wrong with all of us,” hoping it’ll appease Tommy enough to let him go because the craving for alcohol is starting to work its way up his spine, urgent, but Tommy shakes his head almost imperceptibly against his shoulder.

“There’s something _wrong_ with me. I’m all wrong, Vinny, fuckin’ _wrong,_ why else would this be happening to me–”

And Vince realizes he’s talking about his doppelgänger, and remembers they’ve never actually even breached the topic of how or why he exists, and maybe Tommy’s been blaming himself this whole time and Vince is lost as to what he’s supposed to do. He’s still muttering into Vince’s shirt about rot and evil and Vince decides he’s been hanging out with Nikki too much.

He rubs a little harder at Tommy’s back to quiet him. “C’mon, man. Let’s get you to bed.” 

He doesn’t have anything else to offer– the fuck is he supposed to say? If someone has the answers to this shit, it’s not him.

Tommy huffs out a hot, wet breath like he’s been crying that Vince can feel through the fabric of his shirt, then nods a little, shifting his grip so he’s got one arm slung over Vince’s shoulders, bangs hanging over his face. His eyes are dry, though. Small mercies. 

As he’s walking away from Tommy’s hotel room, someone familiar brushes past him. Vince whips around to catch a glimpse and Tommy’s turning his head away, smiling, and _oh shit Not-Tommy._ When he stops and fully turns around the hallway is empty. 

He ends up sleeping in Tommy’s room that night, like a fucking guard dog, watching tall bodies move in the dark.

__

“Vince,” Tommy says, and Vince is so _tired._ So fucking tired. The room sways, and Vince wants to grab something, or sit down, or turn around and walk until he can unlock the door and find his bed and his pills and their sweet, empty sleep.

Tommy stands there in the middle of the room, eyes glassy, looking at him. His face is pale white – ghostly – arms limp at his sides. Something dark drips down from under his curls. A coppery smell hangs in the air.

“Vince.”

The room sways again– no, it’s Tommy who’s swaying. Just a little. Vince thinks if he keeps watching him he’s going to be sick. 

“Vince, please."

It’s oddly flat. Tommy looks down at his feet. Vince follows his gaze.

To the body. To _Tommy._

Tommy, on the ground, unmoving. Tommy, standing above him. Long limbs and white faces and glazed eyes.

He’s faintly aware of a faraway ringing in his ears, like the rare long-distance calls back home to Beth in LA. Cold has seeped down beneath his skin, right to the bone.

“Help me,” Tommy says. Blood trails down his forehead along the slope of his nose, dark and red. His hands are curled loosely at his sides, knuckles torn, faint bruises around his upper arm from a week ago.

Vince thinks about his pills, his wife, the ringing in his head that sounds like screaming. He thinks about the hotel mini bar a couple doors away, the little bottles and the old, familiar burn down his throat. He thinks about sleep, about noises outside his room, about Mötley Crüe.

A body on the ground and a body above it. Tommy and Not-Tommy.

Slowly, Vince nods.

__

They burn the body. The smell of burning flesh is worse than Vince ever imagined, putrid and meaty, suspended above the body-shaped blaze below them. The grave is too shallow, maybe four feet if he’s being generous, but he’d stopped digging after his hands started shaking too much to hold the stolen shovel steady. Tommy didn’t say anything.

The corpse looks pitiful and small, crumpled up in the dirt. Like a passed-out drunk. Vince was almost relieved when the lit match touched gasoline and the whole thing went up.

It’s hot on his face, the flames, a roar of heat and sound, but that cold from earlier lingers. Old sweat sticks to his back and around his arms. Tommy stands next to him (again and again, it seems) watching the flames eat everything until it’s gone with a cigarette between his teeth. The circular scar on Vince’s collar itches.

He reaches into his pocket and feels dry dirt on his skin against the inner lining. The bottle is right where he shoved it, glass cool against the grime under his nails. He pulls it out, feeling the weight of it in his hand, then twists the cap between his fingers until the cheap plastic breaks.

Vodka is sharp on his tongue and sharper down his throat. His eyes water. He drinks until there’s nothing left, then throws the bottle into the hungry flames.

Beside him, Tommy’s smile glints in the firelight.

**Author's Note:**

> first fic in a long ass time so please be gentle :) find me on [tumblr](https://metallicasbian.tumblr.com)


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